(Continued from “The Basics of the Chinese Language.”)
(Part One: “Why I Stopped Learning Chinese.”)
(Note: my references throughout are to Mandarin Chinese, or the standard dialect of Chinese which I learned and was exposed to. Cantonese and other major dialects I did not live with nor learn.)
From Part 2: For those more familiar with Chinese, please forgive me where I have been imprecise or ignorant. And for those unfamiliar, I hope I have provided you with some insight and a feel for my experience with Chinese, which is admittedly very limited. Before I get into my complaint on the Chinese language, I would now like to offer a personal observation, an analogy for Chinese and English that is entirely subjective but I think an accurate and easy way to understand the essential difference between the two languages.
Plumbing and Blocks
English is like plumbing. The thousands of words English has accumulated from other languages like the many pieces and parts stored in the bins of an old plumber’s workshop. An old hand can look at a problem and assemble a solution any number of ways using parts and pieces from different language bins. A simple problem- choosing the right word to complete a sentence- is like a simple repair of a leaking faucet. If the leak was caused by a hairline crack in the pipes, the plumber could plug or patch the leak for a quick fix, or replace the section of pipe altogether. In the same way, English words can be substituted with any of our language’s many synonyms, or the select word can be removed altogether and replaced with another. If the entire sentence is corroded, then the plumber needs to get to work, tinkering and replacing all the seals, pipes, washers, valves, screws, and nuts, i.e. the verb tense, the mood, the word choices, the tone, the syntax, the use of the right nouns, and adjectives that fit just right. Everything must fit together and allow the flow of water- in this metaphor, meaning- without leaks breaking out between pipe connections- i.e. word combinations- that do not fit each other. It is all complex and intricate. Word choices must fit the job, and all words must agree with the verb tenses and flow together towards the sentence’s intended meaning.
For illustration, let us suppose that I want to communicate and describe my upset stomach. Think of all the words and phrases at my disposal. My workshop is filled with shelves of plumbing parts to choose from. My mental plumber can select words originating from several different source languages or put together common English words to form phrases. I could simply plug the leak, saying, “I’m sick.” That will do, but the problem could be better addressed. I could alternatively say, “I’m ill” or “I’m feeling ill.” These sentences say the same thing, but when choosing between words the difference is that between using basic PVC plastic piping, that will work for basic applications but cannot handle high water temperatures, and using copper pipes that are stronger and better able to fortify the flow of meaning. In plumbing, it is water pressure, water temperature, and the location of pipes that determines the material- metal or plastic- to be used for the job. In English, the considerations for word choice are eloquence, context, and meaning.
In this illustration, eloquence is not necessary, yet word choice can still improve my chances of having my specific meaning understood the way choosing the right size washer or O-ring will ensure my pipe fittings do not leak. “I feel bad,” needs to be narrowed down. What is the problem? “My stomach hurts” will work. That efficient sentence is simple yet specific enough to communicate the intended meaning. But again, plumbing can be complex and so can sentence-making- choosing the right words and assembling them to fit the problem. “My stomach is upset” or “It hurts” will not inform my listener what kind of cure I need. I could add another sentence and build a longer connection of pipes. “I think I ate something bad.” Or “I ate something that disagreed with me.” There is a descriptive personification! I never knew food to be opinionated, but I intuitively understand the sense meant by saying that it “disagreed with my stomach.” If I want to attempt a diagnosis, I could say, “I think…” or “Maybe…” to venture a guess, or if I feel certain I could say without introduction, “It is food poisoning.” Think of all the options! So many different word choices and sentences for the same problem. English has shelves and shelves of subtly differing parts which can be sorted through and assembled together.
One could choose the bin labeled “Medical Words” and dig through and choose a word like “diarrhea” if that were my stomach’s problem. Then, the word chosen is from Greek, meaning “flowing through” (speaking of plumbing), and used medically in English it carries the meaning of all the associated symptoms, causes, and cures. Perhaps it is another medical problem with my stomach, so I face a different set of options. I can say, “It’s acid indigestion,” or using Greek again, “It’s pyrosis,” or more colloquially, “It’s heartburn.” So many options for so many things, and an abundance of words to build from.
Lastly, I could select words based on formality, feel, and context. “I’m sick” works simply, with anyone, but “My tummy hurts” is how a child attracts the attention and affection of her mother. If I am concerned with the feel of my words, their connotation, I can swap my source language box. I could go to the “Latin” box of plumbing parts (a very large box in English’s workshop) and pick out “nauseous.” (Note that the Latin “nausea” is in turn based on a Greek word, and English words commonly trace their ancestry back through more than one source language, so in this respect the analogy of boxes of plumbing parts breaks down. Perhaps parts that originated from one language box were sorted in with another?) “Nauseous” is such a strong, multi-syllable word. Very Latin. It has much more dignity than “sick,” in case I need to dress up my sickness for a discriminating audience. I wouldn’t want a dinner party, for the sake of my humorous example, to have to think about the unclean processes of the human body.
And if I’m really sick, I could exclaim/announce/shout/expel/interject/or cry out, “I’m going to throw up!” or “I’m gonna hurl!” or “I’m about to puke!” or “I think I’m ready to vomit!” or “spew” or any number of vulgar, colloquial, or slang terms. English goes on and on. In my experience of Chinese (language, culture, and people) the same standard words, phrases, and expressions were pretty much universally used by everyone in a rote way. It was not a normal thing for me to hear someone put their individual spin on a common saying.
Switching between source languages (in English, usually French, Latin, Greek, or Old English and Germanic) for descriptive words works just like changing a single valve or pipe in a plumbing system. I could say “daily” using a common English word, or I could say “every day” and make a phrase out of two simple pieces, or combine them into “everyday” and make a word with a subtly different meaning. Or, I could resort to Latin and seem sophisticated by using “quotidian.” Maybe the context requires the flair of French, and I say, du jour. Or, I might want to make a philosophical point about the common experience of daily life, so I go back to the “Latin” box and cull up “mundane.” Think of all the possibilities that can be fit together as an ad hoc (Latin again) solution for the sentence and context at hand. Daily allowance = “per diem.” I live life “day by day” or “one day at a time.”
It is a wonder how anyone can stay above water in the overflow of word choices that is the English language. But as the old plumber knows from experience just about where to look in his crowded, cluttered workplace to find the part he is thinking of, so does the English-speaking brain know which set of words to choose from. In this respect, English is not all that different from Chinese or any other language, but the number of words and word bins to choose from is much more abundant, overflowing, multitudinous, ample, bounteous, copious, profuse, populous, numerous, voluminous, and perhaps superfluous.
What is most like plumbing in English is word agreement and flow, the necessity that all the parts of a sentence are fit together properly and that they support the flow of meaning in one direction, just like a plumbing system must fit together properly and support water flow in one direction. Incongruent word choice is like ill-fitting pipes; they disturb the mind like drips from a leak. If a small child said, “Mommy, my tummy is nauseous,” one would assume the child was either precocious or trying out a newly learned vocabulary word. In the same way all the words in a sentence must work together, and the sentence must fit the style and tone of the context.
Most critically, to English and plumbing, the flow of the sentence must be consistent and in one direction. If I incorrectly used a verb tense and said, “I is going to the store now,” then my sentence has sprung a leak. My sentence still carries water- the meaning comes across, but there is a leak of verb confusion. A major meaning flow problem would be like saying, “I have been to go to the store tomorrow.” A listener has no idea what time frame this action is meant to take place, the same as a poorly assembled plumbing system could send water flowing in conflicting directions or into dead ends, with the result of burst pipes and major water leak.
This analogy could be expanded to cover even more aspects of English, but I have already written more than enough to make my point convincing: English is like plumbing.
Chinese, now, is like blocks, the colorful wooden cubes that small children play with. If the reader can excuse the unintended condescension of the analogy, I will explain. Those six-sided playthings are one simple, solid object that has different images painted on each side. Each of the six sides has four edges and can be rotated to face one of four ways. The blocks can be arranged individually and then in combination with other blocks any way the child wants them. This is very Chinese.
In Chinese, words are very simple, having one syllable with the usual pattern of one consonant followed by one vowel, but by altering the tone of the word- rotating the block onto one of its four edges- the face of the block appears differently. It is still the same block face, the same consonant and vowel, but that adjustment in orientation (tone) makes it a different word. Also, as each block has six sides which would have to be examined and handled many times before the whole surface of the block was exactly remembered in the mind’s eye, so the written words of Chinese must be examined and handled- broken down according to root characters and brush strokes, then written out countless times- until that visual memory is unshakably implanted in the brain.
Most pertinent to this analogy, imagine a child (or adult) setting up some blocks any way he wanted on a shelf, metaphorically building a sentence, then objecting strongly when someone else- a foreign language learner- tried to do the same. It would be baffling. The foreigner would question the idea that the blocks really could be arranged in any order, the way Chinese can combine so many words together and is alleged to have no grammar (I have heard this boastful “no grammar” claim before, but I will leave it to a boring linguist to deconstruct it). The foreigner would object, “But I did it just like you!” The native speaker would know though. He had trained his eyes to catch even the slightest difference in the arrangement of his blocks. “There is no grammar,” but the Chinese know which words go together, and though they often cannot explain it, they can perceive when their words aren’t used just right.
In my pronunciation practice with Uncle Jiang and others, I felt like I was setting up my blocks on a display shelf for their scrutiny, and they would huffily say, “No!” and then rearrange my blocks- my pronunciation- by sliding a block over with their finger just a hair. I am a native English speaker, so I thought, “What’s the difference? I speak my words approximately the same as they do.” But no, they could tell. My pronunciation of Chinese tones, which might have sounded identical or close enough to me, could be found outrageous by them. Chinese grammar has no rules save the capricious feelings of its native users, like the whimsy of a child’s arrangement of his toys, and Chinese pronunciation is just as subtle as that of a child who insists his toys must be exactly arranged.
Also note: blocks do not connect. Pipes must connect by being inserted together, being arranged in a system having the right shapes and distances and gravitational flow. But blocks can be stacked or set side by side in any arrangement; there are no joints or threads with which to connect one block to another. Words in Chinese come whole; there is no conjugation of verbs or modification of nouns and adjectives to connect them to another word. Chinese does not have “go, to go, am going, did go, will go, went, gone.” Chinese has “go, go, go.”
Chinese words can simply be set next to each other. One block can easily be swapped out for another equally-sized block and the arrangement will hold, so long as it is a native speaker who knows how to delicately arrange the clumsy objects. If you don’t have the touch, your hearers will soon be calling out “Jenga!”
Yes, Chinese is like blocks. Now that I have essayed to demonstrate this and acquainted the reader with the nature of English and Chinese as I very much imperfectly understand them, I can commence my complaint.
To be continued.
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